


Dreadful

by DictionaryWrites2



Category: Bright Young Things, Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Cute, Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-13
Updated: 2019-05-13
Packaged: 2020-03-02 09:13:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18808162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites2/pseuds/DictionaryWrites2
Summary: “It’s all dreadful,” said a loudly dramatic voice, and Aziraphale looked up from his book, which he had been idly reading in the Hyacinth and Vine as he’d sipped at a rather pleasant glass of port. It was not yet eleven, meaning it was not so late of the evening, but the club was busy enough... And with the addition of one Miles Maitland, young, drunk, and apparently full of vim and vigour, it had abruptly become far busier.





	Dreadful

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Français available: [Dreadful - Traduction](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19416196) by [Rikka_kun](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rikka_kun/pseuds/Rikka_kun)



“It’s all  _dreadful_ ,” said a loudly dramatic voice, and Aziraphale looked up from his book, which he had been idly reading in the Hyacinth and Vine as he’d sipped at a rather pleasant glass of port. It was not yet eleven, meaning it was not so late of the evening, but the club was busy enough... And with the addition of one Miles Maitland, young, drunk, and apparently full of vim and vigour, it had abruptly become far busier.

“Oh, dear,” Aziraphale said sympathetically, and set his book aside just in time for the young man to throw himself with a woeful cry in Aziraphale’s lap. 

This was not, in itself, an unsettling behaviour. Crowley certainly spent a good deal of time in Aziraphale’s lap, curling against his chest or throwing his legs haphazardly over Aziraphale’s thighs, and several of the young bucks would perch on the knees of their good friend, Mr Fell.

Miles threw himself head first into place, his body sprawled over the rest of the sofa, buried his face in Aziraphale’s thigh, and wailed. It was not an especially loud wail, but it was accompanied by a sort of thrashing of the feet, and Aziraphale could not help the slight smile on his face as he gently patted the young chap’s lower back.

“It’s all  _dreadful_ ,” Miles repeated, his voice muffled by the meat of Aziraphale’s thigh. “It’s all dreadful, and I hate the very world we live in, Ezra, I hate it most awfully, and would invite it to burn were it only polite enough to accept my invitation.”

“Quarrelling with Agatha again, are you, dear?”

Miles abruptly turned in his lap, his head laid back on Aziraphale’s lap, his brow furrowed, his lips pouting, and he crossed his arms over his chest as he laid, like so, on his back. “Ezra,” he said, “I have decided I shall die.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, “no, you oughtn’t do that.”

“Then I shall lie here forever,” Miles said, with exaggerated misery. 

“Why don’t you tell me all about it?” Aziraphale said gently, letting Miles take hold of his hand and begin idly tracing the lines of his palm, examining it in careful detail - he liked to do this, and sometimes read Aziraphale his fortune, although it seemed to change every time. 

And Miles, as he ever did, began to talk at length. Aziraphale didn’t mind. He was a sweet young man, really, albeit unlucky in love - born, Aziraphale felt, a little out of time. But  _sweet_. He was that.

Aziraphale couldn’t help his small, indulgent smile as he listened to the young man go on. 


End file.
